Mistletoe
by ReviewDiaries
Summary: Set in Season 3 after 3x09 (because Christmas isn't Christmas with a sire bond and no Ric) Elena attempts to persuade Damon into the Christmas spirit with some ridiculous fluff and feelings as a result. For Laurie - Merry Christmas!


When I pull into the driveway of the boarding house the sight of Elena's car parked out front isn't all that surprising. She's been spending more and more time at the house since Stefan's skipped town and I seem to be constantly tripping over odd things of hers that she's left scattered around the place. What makes me hesitate is the sound I can hear trickling out into the night – music. Christmas carols to be exact. I groan, debating the odds of being able to get the car out and high tailing it to the nearest bar without her spotting me. Pretty slim, she seems to have a freaky sixth sense for knowing when I'm dodging her.

Along with the music I can hear playing, Elena's voice suddenly joins in exuberantly and I try to supress a laugh. Maybe staying will be more fun after all if I'm going to get a full on musical floor show. Finally bracing myself against whatever madness I might find inside, I climb out of the car and turn my jacket collar up against the cold, stomping through the days snowfall and pushing open the front door.

I barely have time to register the sheer number of fairy lights, the step ladder that was in front of the door, but now lies crumpled on the floor – before I hear her shriek and automatically reach out and catch her in my arms before she can hit the ground.

For a moment neither of us do anything but stare in shock at each other, before my frustration at her inability to not get herself in stupid situations overrides everything.

"What the hell were you doing?" I can feel her hand curled around my shoulder and neck, fingertips lightly skimming my skin and my grip on her tightens.

"I was hanging mistletoe."

I want to believe she's joking but a glance up confirms it and I feel my mouth go dry at the sprig hanging directly above us. She's even put a damn red bow on it to make it festive.

I unceremoniously dump her onto the carpet and take a step back, swallowing, desperately trying to regain some sense of equilibrium.

"Any particular reason why you decided climbing a ladder directly behind a frequently used door was a good idea? Or should I just blame the festive spirit for addling your brain?"

She glares at me and I can feel a smirk walking across half of my face in response. "I was _trying_ to make this place feel a little bit festive since you were doing your best Scrooge impression."

"Did you not think that there might be a point to the lack of festivity in this house? Like me not wanting to celebrate it?"

"But that's ridiculous, it's Christmas, you can't just pretend it doesn't exist."

"Watch me." I brush past her to find the nearest bottle of Bourbon and am assaulted by the sheer number of fairy lights strung up around the front room. I can't do anything but stare at them in shock – it literally looks like Santa's grotto. It must have taken her hours to hang them all. I can feel her watching me and suddenly I'm not sure I trust my voice. Until I catch sight of the tree that is, a six foot monstrosity towering in the corner and I can feel the panic rising in me at the thought of her trying to manoeuvre that thing into the house without being crushed.

"Elena, please tell me you haven't done all this by yourself?"

"No, Ric and Jeremy were here earlier and they helped with the tree and hanging some of the lights, but Ric had to take Jeremy to the Grill for his shift."

Oh goody, so everyone in town will know, as soon as Ric's had a few shots, of the slow stripping away of any of my masculinity. There's only so much threat from a guy with a house covered in twinkle lights.

She's hovering expectantly, waiting for me to say something about it all, and I find I can't quite muster up the snark that I want. There's something about her having spent the afternoon trying to make the house look festive that makes me want to drag her back underneath that damned mistletoe rather than say something brilliantly witty and crushing. I settle instead for clearing my throat and muttering something about a drink before heading for the whiskey decanter on the side.

Unfortunately that takes me closer to the tree and I get a closer look at the decorations and boxes spilling out in front of it and I freeze.

"Where did you get these?" My voice is hoarse and I don't quite trust myself. I want to laugh. Cry. Shake her until she understands that vampires are not cuddly people to fix, we're monsters with no humanity, and the fragile glass baubles and ribbons on the tree are relics. Trappings of a life so long ago that they should be in a museum exhibit, not strung up on a tree.

"I found them in the attic." Her voice isn't quite steady, smart girl she might be noticing that this wasn't her best plan to date. Hell, none of Elena's plans are good plans, but this might be one of her stupidest to date, and that includes her deal with Elijah.

"And you thought bringing them out would be a good idea why exactly?"

"They're part of your past Damon, a connection to your family."

"And thinking about my little brother, who is currently ripping people's heads off right now by the way, is a brilliant idea how exactly?"

Her hand touches me lightly between my shoulder blades. "I just thought it was a nice connection to your past, to good memories." Her voice is soft and I want to lean into her touch, have her wrap her arms around me and soothe away all the hurt and anger and resentment at Stefan for putting me in this fucking position in the first place. Christmas was always our time, and I can't stop looking at these tiny, fragile flakes of our humanity strung up for anyone to look at, and see his face when I gave him his first journal.

I'd gotten sick of him stealing all my paper to scrawl over so I'd bought him his own book – leather bound, a proper tome of blank pages for him to scrawl all over and save my own pages for my words. I refuse to acknowledge the irony in getting Stefan onto his obscene determination to record every thought, tear drop and bunny death that occurs.

I realise I'm still staring at the tree, and probably have been for some time, so I shrug out from under Elena's hand and make my way over to pour a drink. A large one.

"Are you mad at me?"

I toss back the contents of the glass and pour another one. There are too many memories, too many thoughts and feelings and sensations and I can't contain the onslaught and nothing is ok right now, but I can't blame all of that on her desperate attempt to cheer me up for the holidays, I can almost feel myself wilting with defeat.

"No I'm not mad with you Elena."

"But you wish I hadn't done this." She gestures at the room, the over compensation of festivity. Do I wish she hadn't?

I don't want the memories, sure, but there's something about the reminder of Christmas, of things I've ignored since I was human that makes me ache inside. That makes me want to reach out and grab hold of every little thing and keep it. Because I miss it. Because I want it. I want my little brother back. I want my life back. I am one big desperate barrage of want and need, and it hurts. But it makes me feel alive.  
I force myself to look up, to meet her eye and try a vague approximation of a smile. "No Elena, I wish you'd managed to avoid making it look as though a Christmas Elf has thrown up all over my front room, but I'm not mad. I'm kinda impressed actually – does anyone in Mystic Falls actually have any fairy lights left?"

She grins at me, this unbridled joy shining from her face, and I can't help but smile back, she's just so damn alive and vibrant and the ache inside me intensifies and deepens into a longing yearn that makes me hurriedly down the remainder of my drink.

"I left a few, but some of the neighbours front yards look a little bare right now." I almost spit my drink back out again. She laughs at the look on my face and plonks herself down on the sofa to untangle some of the lights that haven't made it up yet. (Although where she's planning on putting them I have no idea.)

"So what were Christmas' like before, you know – "

"You mean before Stefan started ripping the neighbours apart instead of going carolling?" I can see a smile underneath the curtain of hair she's let fall forward.

I pour another glass and sit down on the opposite sofa, watching her work deftly untangling the strands. "They were different. Mother would always throw an extravagant party on Christmas eve', and we'd exchange gifts once all the guests had left. There would be sweets and oranges and a pair of riding gloves or a book. I remember the year I got the gold dollar in the Christmas pudding. We were young but Stefan threw the world's biggest hissy fit at that. After that year Mother made sure his slice always got the dollar. Father thought it showed promise of a good business man. Dancing and singing and Stefan would always insist on a game of hide and seek on Christmas day after dinner. The Salvatore annual game of hide and seek was quite a tradition in Mystic Falls."  
She laughs at this and I swallow down the lump that's risen in my throat thinking about all of it again. I can practically smell the oranges and candles burning on the tree.

"And then Mother died and Christmas was never quite the same again. Of course there were only a few left before Katherine came and upended us all."

The smile has gone from her face and I curse myself for dragging the mood back down again. I swallow down the last of the whiskey and contemplate the glass for a minute. There's no sound but the fire and Elena's quiet heartbeat and suddenly it's all so unbearable. I want to get out. I want to get away from it all. I want to pull it all close and inhale ever last distant memory of Mother's perfume on the ribbons.

"It's late. You should go."

"Damon – "

I flash her one of my best smiles, although I can feel it doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Thank you for the festivity Elena, It's really quite spectacular."

She smiles, but it's a sad one and I know she doesn't believe me. She picks up her coat though, and winds her scarf round her neck. "You're welcome. I'll be by to pick you up tomorrow."

I nod absently, caught by the simple unaffected beauty of her as she pulls her coat on, her jumper stretching deliciously over her curves for a moment. "Wait, what's happening tomorrow?"

"You're coming over for Christmas dinner." She says it with such casual assuredness that for a moment I find myself agreeing before my brain catches up with the lovesick puppy in me.

"Wait, what? Elena I don't do Christmas!"

She throws out her arms and gestures at the room – "I think you do now." She pats me on the arm and grins calling over her shoulder as she waltzes out the front door, "I'll pick you up at twelve!"

By the time I hear her car turn onto the driveway I have almost, sort of, managed to sort out some vague semblance of Christmas presents, drunk several glasses of whiskey, and put on a shirt. Considering this is the first Christmas I am actually attempting to celebrate since 1859 (apart from that one time in Vegas in 1993 with the three playboy bunnies and a great deal of eggnog) I feel like I'm doing pretty well. It doesn't explain why I'm so nervous though as I wait for her to finally reach the door and ring the bell.

I take a breath, pull it open, and forget to exhale. I've seen Elena in a lot of states during our friendship, asleep, morning bed hair, terrified running from evil, but never have I seen her look like this. She's got a red sweater dress on that I swear shows more leg than I've seen even when she's wearing those tiny shorts to bed and a pair of lace up knee high boots that don't help my imagination at all, and oh dear god is that holly in her hair? She looks devastatingly gorgeous and cute as hell and I am painfully aware of the mistletoe hanging over my head as I look at her.

"Damon?"

"Uh, yeah, let me get my jacket." I duck back in and grab my jacket and the hastily wrapped gifts and turn back to her, but she's stepped forward and I practically collide with her, my arms reaching round to stop her falling and her hands fisted in the front of my shirt and I can't do anything but look at her. The slight flush that's curving up her cheek, and the tongue darting out to lick her lips and the way her heart is hammering, and the feel of her pressed up against me, and dammit I don't want to step away but I really should.

But she hasn't moved either, it's as though the moment froze us inside it and now neither of us want to let it go, to let the clock keep on ticking forward, but I don't want to ruin today before it's even really started.

"Elena?" My voice is barely a whisper, but she hears it. She hears the question and the god damn longing and her eyes flutter down to my lips before closing, letting her eyelashes curve against her cheek, and for a moment her hands tighten their grip on my shirt pulling me closer, wrapping tighter, and her breath catches. I can't move, can't think, can't even breathe – terrified to do anything that might shatter this fragile moment spinning out between us.

And then she sighs, stepping back, her eyes still downcast. "We should get going, I don't want the turkey to over-cook."

"Right. Yeah. Absolutely." I wish my voice was steadier, but I can't seem to focus, barely register anything on the drive over to her house except the scent of her perfume and the way her boots hug her legs, and the fact that Ric will kill me if I try anything and screw up Christmas – I had a drunken rant from him the night before lecturing me on the do's and don't's of Christmas etiquette. Apparently crisis', murders, sacrifices and coming on to impressionable Gilbert children are all off the agenda today. Pity.

"Jer, how's the turkey?" She calls as soon as we're inside the door, knocking snow off her boots and hanging up her coat. She turns to take mine and freezes when she sees the small bundle of wrapped things in my arms – apparently her powers of observation have been on strike since we left the house.  
She looks at me then, her lips parted, eyes so big and wide and innocent and I can't do anything but stand there as she reaches out and touches my arm lightly. "You got us presents?"

I clear my throat desperately wishing for at least a shred of my former dignity and wit to return at some point in the near future when Ric comes round the corner, and seizes on the presents with glee.

"You got us presents!?" It's such a world away from the moment before that I have to laugh, particularly when he picks out his instantaneously – no amount of creative wrapping can hide the bottle shape. "I thought you were the Grinch that stole Christmas man, you're losing your reputation here – and the heat, get the door and come in."

He slides the gifts under the tree and beckons me into the kitchen where Elena has already disappeared to, presumably to make sure that Jeremy hasn't decimated Christmas dinner whilst she was picking me up.

It smells delicious, festive, and unbelievably welcome as I am brought into this tight unit of festive cheer and given a tumbler of whiskey and a vegetable peeler with instructions to peel everything because Ric is more likely to take off some body parts than anything on the vegetables.

I lose myself in the laughter and the normalcy, and the brief break from anything life threatening that we all so desperately need. In the conversation and Ric attempting to carve the turkey, and being forced into one of those ridiculous paper hats by Elena, because when she's smiling and leaning over the table like that to ram it on my head I don't think I can deny her anything. It also helps that Ric looks about as much of an idiot as I feel.

Somehow it all becomes ok in that warm cocoon of a kitchen, with the talk and the jokes and the lack of anyone bursting in with a stake or a hybrid or some ridiculous new plan, and I sit back and revel in it. Revel in the feeling of contentment that I know will be gone by morning.

But then Elena drags us into the living room for presents like she's five years old again and I try to pretend I am as relaxed as I was whilst we were eating, but I can't stop thinking about the three badly wrapped presents from me under the tree that I persuaded myself were a good idea at three in the morning after several bottles of bourbon.

Elena has, with obvious glee, bought Ric a professor's tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows that he doesn't quite know what to make of. She is literally bouncing as she shows him the pocket she's sewn inside to have a stake on hand at all times, and I try valiantly to contain at least some of my laughter both at the look of her tragically awful sewing and Ric's face as he tries to work out what to make of the present. I fail hideously as is made clear from Ric's threat to tell the entirety of the Grill that my house is decked up like Santa's grotto the next time he's in there. Although he is somewhat appeased when he opens the bottle of truly exceptional (and expensive) whiskey I'd found for him.

Jeremy gets pads and pencils and charcoal and a smart new portfolio from Ric with a wry grin as he points out that eventually he'll need some way to take his work to college interviews. He seems genuinely touched, although this gives way to slight alarm where Elena hands him the present from me. He pulls out the knife and raises his eyebrows, "thanks?"

"It's so you can learn how to whittle properly." I smirk at him, and a surprised laugh bursts from him before he's even fully aware of it.

"Thanks man, I think." Ric and Elena keep looking at us as though we've lost it, but quickly relax when it becomes clear that bloodshed is not on the cards – at least not this evening.

Ric had help with Elena's gift that much is clear, although whether from one of the girls or Jeremy starting to exhibit impressive feminine taste I'm not sure. It's a soft blue sweater, pale dipped low so it skims across her shoulders and lower against her chest and I have to look away quickly when she holds it up, imagining her in that and very little else. I don't really think that train of thought would win me any favours given our current company.

Some new books from Jeremy, and then she's pulling out the one from me, and there's such a soft smile curving her lips that I find myself jittering like a school boy. It's pathetic and ridiculous, and I'm terrified she isn't going to like it. She's being so careful with the silver paper, and I want to rip it out of her hands and make this whole damn process a lot quicker so I know whether I'll be throwing myself off Wickery Bridge later on.  
Finally the paper is put aside and she looks at the black velvet box before meeting my eyes, almost asking permission to open it. I nod slightly and give her a tight smile.

She gasps, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I don't do gifts, they're ridiculous and idiotic and god damn it I wish she'd say something – anything!

Gently, ever so slowly she pulls the bracelet out of the case – a delicate interweaving of silver strands – and then she turns it over.

"Oh – Damon." I don't really feel like I can ask if that was a good 'oh' or a bad 'oh' so I wait impatiently until she meets my eyes, and now I feel like the world's worst person because she's got tears in her eyes and I can't take it anymore.

"Say if you don't like it – it doesn't matter, I know it's stupid and you've got loads of – " but she cuts me off with a swift hug, and I take that it was a good 'oh' after all. My arm wraps around her and hold her against me for a moment, and I'm full of the feel and scent of her and then she whispers so close to my ear I can feel each breath, "it's beautiful, thank you."

She pulls back slightly and offers it and her wrist to me, "will you do it up for me?"

I silently berate myself when I notice my fingers shaking as I take it from her, my finger skimming across the words engraved on the inside. _Sad soul take comfort, nor forget, that sunrise never failed us yet._ Stupid really, but I found it in a book and it made me think of her. Hell everything makes me think of her, and it was one of my ridiculously weak moments when I wanted to get her something to help cheer her up, to remind her that life wasn't all death and destruction and devastating loss. And then of course the idea of a bracelet making up for any of that was so unbelievably stupid that I never gave it to her. My fingers fumble with the catch but when it finally hooks my finger stays pressed gently against the pulse on the inside of her wrist.

"I'm glad you like it."

And then of course Ric clears his throat and gives me a look that tells me he will be escorting me off the premises shortly if I don't let go of her wrist. I give him a lazy smile and gradually release Elena.

It takes her a moment to recover, but then she clears her throat and tries to hide her blush behind her hair and swiftly goes back to the tree to retrieve one more present that I hadn't noticed before.

"This is for you – you know it's hard to shop for someone who has everything." She almost sounds normal, like her heart isn't still thrumming like a caged bird in her chest so loudly I can hear it like a drum in my own. I can't do anything but stare at it, wrapped and tied with an obscenely cute bow, because the last time I was given a gift my heart was thrumming in my chest as loudly as hers is now.

Finally I realise that I'm staring like an idiot and I reach out to take it, fingers brushing lightly against hers for a moment. "Thank you." I don't know what else to say. There are no words to possibly express what I'm feeling at this moment, and I don't think I want to with Ric and Jeremy watching every exchange, breath, and look as though waiting for an excuse to deck me.

I peel back the tape, un-knot the ribbons and flatten each piece of paper so I don't tear it – it's too precious to be cavalier about it now.  
Finally the paper pulls back to reveal a leather bound copy of "Gone with the Wind" – a first edition if I'm not mistaken. I pick it up with reverent fingers, carefully opening the cover to see that I was right. It is in incredible condition, utterly beautiful.

"I know you have a copy, but I know it's falling apart and how much you love it and I didn't want you to not be able to read it when you end up losing all the pages from yours. I'm sorry, I know it's lame giving someone something they already have, but – " I want to shut her up with a kiss, to make her stop saying these ridiculous things about not liking it when she would be hard pressed to pry it from my hands ever again. She saw, she knew, she realised how much I loved it. The sentiment is as precious as the bound pages in my hands, and I want to wrap it up, press it in between the cover and the front piece and keep it there forever.

"Elena, it's beautiful. Thank you." I catch her eyes and it all falls away. I don't think I've ever loved her as much as I do in this moment.

"You're welcome – I'm glad you like it."

And then Ric knocks over his glass and Jeremy clears his throat rather loudly and pretends to be intensely absorbed by his new coloured pencils, and the moment is broken, Elena leaps back as though she's been shocked and we pretend that nothing is different. Nothing has changed and we are still a happy family playing Christmas. But there's an undercurrent now, and I can't focus on the conversation as well, just run my fingers across the embossed title and edges of the pages of the book in my lap and pretend that my heart hasn't just swelled to three times its fucking usual size.

Eventually I can't take it anymore. I need to get out, out in the air and the cold and walk, try and clear my head and shake off this whole ridiculously sentimental day before I turn into a complete pansy and start writing in a journal and shaping my hair. I stand and make my goodbyes, well wishes, gentle ribbing not to drink the entire bottle tonight to Ric, and then I'm out, standing on the porch and filling my lungs with air.

The door swings open behind me and Elena steps out, rubbing her arms against the cold. She smiles up at me softly, and if I'd had another tumbler of whiskey I'd be going weak at the knees with that look.

"I wanted to say thank you, again."

"You're welcome, again." She smiles down at the bracelet and gently twists it between her fingers.

"It's beautiful Damon, really I – " But suddenly it's too much. The day, the alcohol, the scent of her perfume, the soft mushy feelings attempting to take up permanent residence in my stomach, and the weight of the book in my pocket.

"It's fine. I'm glad you like it. You're freezing, get back inside.

But she doesn't. She pauses again and glances up at the mistletoe hanging above us, then down at the ground, scuffing one of her boots against the porch and I can't take it anymore, the want and the need and the god damn festive cheer because right now I want to throw things – preferably her against the wall and to kiss her soundly, to hear her breath catch in her throat and have my arms wrapped around her – and have another drink, and wallow in the sheer idiotic circular pattern of my love life.

I turn and walk down the steps and out into the show, flicking up the collar of my jacket and burying my hands in my pockets, preparing for the long walk back to the house. It'll help clear my head, clear the heat out of my body, and hell I've got a truly gorgeous bottle of whiskey waiting for me back home.

"Damon!" I turn at the sound of her footsteps behind me. There's a breathlessness to her, a wild gleam in her eyes and then I see what she's got caught in one of her hands. A god damn sprig of mistletoe, and I stop thinking altogether.

She stops just in front of me, and bites her lip, her eyes never leaving mine. Snow catching in her hair and her eyelashes, and I can barely breathe. And then she lifts the sprig up over the space between us and gives me such a coy, innocent look from beneath her lashes that in that moment she could almost be Katherine. But she's not, she's Elena – soft, feisty, 'it will always be Stefan' Elena. Holding up mistletoe and looking at me expectantly. And I don't know if she really means it, wants me to kiss her on the cheek or the lips, or ravish her right there in the snow where any of the neighbours could see us.

Her mouth quirks up in a tiny smile, almost apologetic, almost laughing, and the mistletoe is still there, and I just want to kiss that corner of her mouth where her smile begins.

I shift closer, I can feel the heat radiating off her, the soft curves of her against me, and ever so gently I bring my mouth down to hers.

It's a soft kiss, a bare brush of my lips against hers, feather light and chaste, because I can't bear offering her more and being rejected now.

It almost kills me to do it but I pull back, not far, I can't leave the warmth of her just yet, and look at her. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted in shock or wonder I can't quite tell, and then her eyes flutter open and she looks at me – really looks at me. The softest 'oh' escapes her, and I am undone.

The hand holding the mistletoe drops to her side and for a moment she just stares at me, and I can't decide if it's a good a thing or not, and just as I'm about to step back, to say goodnight and walk home replaying that brief press of lips over and over again until I go insane or lose myself in a whiskey induced coma – her hands reach out and fist into my shirt, drawing me back, pulling me and bringing my lips back to hers.

This isn't the soft innocence of our kiss a moment ago, or even of my death bed kiss. It is hot and hungry as she slants her mouth against mine and flicks her tongue against the corner of my lips to open my mouth and deepen the kiss. It's all hot breath and desperate wishes and plea's and soft noises that make me draw her closer, pull her flush against me and tangle my hands in her hair. And her hands are in mine and I can't think straight anymore, only focus on her lips and her touch and the desperate ache in me that has finally subsided.

She pulls away, just the space of a breath between us and looks at me, and I want to know so badly what she sees now, because that isn't a look she's ever given me before. Hell that's not a look anyone has ever used on me before. It's intense and almost uncomfortable and I drop my head and press a line of kisses along her jaw and down her neck and she groans, her head lolling back and I pull her tighter against me, desperate to taste every inch of skin available. Every piece of her. To hold her and never let her go.

"Damon." Her voice is so soft, so tender, and I look up, caught in her eyes again. "Don't go."

I want to pick her up, carry her back inside and upstairs and bolt the door against any interfering Gilberts and honorary Gilberts and make sure she means those two words.

But instead I smile softly, "I promised you I'd never leave."

Her breath huffs out but she can't stop the slight quirk of her mouth. "I meant don't go back tonight. Not to that empty house. Not at Christmas."

"But I've got all your Christmas cheer to keep me company!" She laughs at that, and the vibration runs through my body and I can't help but press another kiss to her mouth, catching her lower lip gently between my teeth. Marvelling at the moment and the fact that I can actually touch those lips without being slapped away.

She kisses me back, hands curving into the back pockets of my jeans and pulling me tight against her. So close – it's not close enough. I can't remember why I was leaving anymore, why I would ever leave the warmth of her arms.

"But Ric and Jeremy." Her armed guards. That's why.

"Just stay, they'll fall asleep eventually – particularly on that whiskey you gave him." The devilish gleam in her eyes makes me laugh.

I know I'll regret these words, but I'll regret not saying them even more. "Why Elena, why do you want me to stay?"

She pauses for a moment, pulls back and chews her lip, watching me. "Because I want you to Damon – you."

One word, three letters, and I can feel myself unravelling under her gaze, under the gentle urging of her fingertips at my jaw to come closer. So I do.

I kiss her again and I feel like I am coming home. I feel like I am drowning. I feel like I am lost and she is the only one who can save me. I feel more alive now than I have since I was human – since my mother was alive.

I pull back again gently, reaching into my pocket. "I have one more present for you."

"But Damon you already – " I cut her off with a soft kiss and then lean my forehead against hers.

"It's nothing really." I slip it into her hand and wrap her fingers closed around it. "But I want you to have it. It belongs to you now."

I silence her with a kiss and wrap my arm around her, leading her back to the house as she stares at the gold dollar resting in her hand.


End file.
